by Lois Greiman
Sydney shut her eyes and exhaled softly. It had been years beyond count since she’d asked for a favor. Defunct lemonade stands had taught her better. But cash was going to be necessary if she was going to fix up this place. In fact, she wouldn’t even be able to afford her rental car much longer without a financial boost. “I need …” She paused, breathless. “The truth is, I’m in need of a loan.”
“Ahh, good one, Syd. Did somebody die and bequeath you a sense of humor?”
A noise sounded from the hallway. Sydney tightened her grip on the phone. “It’s, ummm …” She had no idea how to do this. “It’s for a good cause.”
“You’re not serious.”
As serious as bankruptcy, she thought, and cleared her throat. “I think I overextended.”
“Overextended?” Tori laughed. “Did you buy a continent or something?”
Sydney tried and failed to chuckle. “A ranch.”
“What?”
“I bought a ranch.”
“You did not.”
Tori was right. What Sydney had done was buy a catastrophe, a veritable nightmare. “It needs a few repairs.” Such as a new house. A new barn. Fences.
“And Leonard”—the shrug was implicit in Tori’s tone—“doesn’t know about it?”
“I didn’t want to bother Father until the property is up to his standards. You know how he is.”
“How is he? Stuffy?”
“I thought that was how you were.”
Sydney had always preferred the word sophisticated. “I’m sorry to ask—” she began, but Redhawk suddenly filled her doorway.
“I need you for a minute,” he rumbled.
“Oh.” She pressed the phone to her chest for a moment. “I’ll be right there.”
He nodded once and turned away.
“Who was that?” Tori’s tone had perked up like a cockatiel.
“That was … you know …” Sydney tried to sound light-hearted. Constipated would have been closer to the mark. “Cowboy number three.”
“Yeah? What’s his name?”
She closed her eyes. “I guess that sense of humor should have come with instructions.”
Silence.
“I was joking,” Sydney explained.
“Uh uh. Unless you were imitating Sam Elliot on testosterone, someone just said he needed you.”
Sydney turned to glance out the window, but whatever inspiration she had found in days past was noticeably absent now. “You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
There was a moment of silence, then, “Are you in some kind of trouble, Syd?”
“No. Of course not.” Her throat felt tight, her hands unsteady.
“How much do you need?”
Not a stick of gum. She hadn’t asked for so much as a piece of Juicy Fruit in the past fifteen years of her life. “Twenty thousand dollars.”
“Oh, okay … if you tell me his name.”
Sydney let her eyes fall closed and rubbed her temple. It was beginning to throb. That’s what favors did. “It’s Hunter Redhawk. But people seem to simply call him Hunt.”
There was a pause. “I’d rather you told me to go to hell instead of lying to me.”
“I’m not …” Sydney exhaled again. “Well, you know what they say, lie big or lie low.”
It was a joke from their teenage years. Neither one had ever really known what it was supposed to mean.
“Hunter Redhawk …” Victoria chuckled. “If you give me your account number I’ll transfer money this afternoon.”
Sydney tightened her grip on the phone. “Could you do it right away?”
“You sure you’re okay, Syd?”
“What? Yes. Of course. But … cowboys don’t come cheap, you know.”
“Really? That’s exactly how I thought they came. You’re killing all my illusions of… What?” Tori asked, attention obviously drifting. “Oh, that’s right. I almost forgot. Listen, Syd, I’m supposed to help Howard’s mom decide on the menu for his thirty-fifth. Can I give you a call later?”
“Of course. But … you won’t forget, will you?”
“Forget what?”
Sydney closed her eyes. “The loan.”
“Oh! Yes. I’m coming. Holy mother of God, you would think we were planning the inaugural ball.” Sydney could hear Tori gather her keys, pick up her purse. “The last time I gave him a party, he was dozing on the putting green before he opened his presents. I’m thinking of having a half-naked girl jump out of a cake this time just to keep him awake. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“Okay then. Have some cowboy on me, will you?”
“Sure,” Sydney said and wondered if today was the day she would fail the Wellesley name and throw up like an un-pedigreed cocker spaniel.
Chapter 12
“Problems?” Redhawk was behind her again. For a man the size of a national monument, he could move with disturbing stealth.
“Besides the fact that this house looks as if it suffered an eight-point-nine on the Richter scale?” Sydney asked and tore up another few inches of moldy carpet. For some ungodly reason, the previous homeowner had used industrial strength adhesive to glue down the flooring. Her arms pulsed like a jackhammer. Her back felt as if someone had taken a crowbar to it. And when had she begun thinking in terms of demolition tools? “None whatsoever.”
“Good. Cuz you’re going to want to finish up there before the new windows arrive.”
“When’s that?”
“About ten minutes,” he said and turned away with a grin. It had taken her two hours to get this far.
She glared at his retreating back only to realize he was carrying a log the size of a Scottish caber. It was perched on his shoulder as if it was no more cumbersome than a paper clip. She curled her upper lip into a snarl. Damn barbarian, she thought, and yanking at the carpet, barely managed to avoid hitting herself in the head with the claw of her hammer.
And that was the best part of her day. By noon she thought she might die. By five o’clock she half hoped she would. Her biceps burned and her knees twanged with an intensity that rivaled the pulsing in her injured thigh.
But she had discovered that rhythmic walking helped alleviate the cramping that could seize up the muscles in her quadriceps. So once she had finished her self-imposed tasks for the day, she made her way down the plywood ramp that had replaced her defunct porch.
The sun was shifting toward the bare treetops on the western horizon. A robin landed on a listing fence post and warbled at the sky. The slanted shaft of late-day sun felt warm and hopeful against Sydney’s skin. She tilted her face toward its friendly heat, then glanced east. The winding gravel road that swept away from Gray Horse Hill provided solid footing and a challenging climb, but her own land beckoned. True, she had no intention of remaining here any longer than necessary, but surely it was good business to know what she owned. Resolved to hike the backcountry, she shoved her hands into the pockets of the tattered coat Hunter had loaned her, and headed south.
The fences that had once partitioned off pastures and fields were mostly hidden beneath winter-browned weeds and tired snowdrifts. Still, her hip complained as she stepped over the remaining strands.
Off to her left, a cottontail leaped from some unseen sanctuary and bounded away, body arced and floating like a well-bred courser. Sydney watched its erratic path and noticed the shadow of a red-tailed hawk overhead, but the bunny had already dashed into a new haven.
Amazing, she thought reluctantly: the cleverness of the rabbit, the persistence of the falcon. She scanned the long sweep of distant hills, then lowered her gaze to a nearby cairn of stones. Tiny purple flowers, as fragile as hope, peeked through the remaining snow.
Goose bumps prickled along her arms, though she couldn’t have said why. It wasn’t as if Gray Horse Hill was one of the Seven Wonders of the World, but there was something here. An austere beauty that allowed her to forget the throbbing in her leg. That
forced her to venture onward, uphill and down, around the next bend, until she lost her breath at the wonder of the place. Spread below her, Beaver Creek wound through bold bluffs and patient cottonwoods.
The hustling currents glistened like diamonds as they hurried toward parts unknown. High above, the hawk had found a mate. The pair soared on warming thermals, shadows racing over pine and prairie. It was, in a word, breathtaking. But time was slipping away, Sydney realized suddenly, and turned. It was then that a rasped shriek shivered through the still evening.
Pivoting back, she scanned the valley below her. A bird, she thought. It had been nothing more deadly than a grouse. Or maybe a pheasant hidden in the brush. When she had a spare minute, she would Google wildlife in the area and learn …
The sound came again, scraping along her nerve endings, skittering up her spine. Her eyes skimmed the red-rocked canyon, past the rusty bluffs to the pines below. It was there, practically hidden in a cluster of deep green boughs, that a flash of movement caught her attention. Something quick and small. She scowled, trying to make out the source of the noise. A cat, perhaps, or a fox? She took a few tentative steps forward. Maybe a weasel or a …
The sound came again, low and breathy. With anger? With fear? She glanced toward the house she had left far behind. But curiosity or something like it forced her to turn, to hurry down a winding trail made by unknown travelers. Keeping her attention trained on the spot where she had seen the movement, she hiked along, but when she had rounded the last bend, she could see nothing unusual.
Perhaps it had simply been the light playing tricks on her. Or maybe …
The raspy noise sounded again. She stopped, breath held. It was impossible to see through the tangled branches, but she was sure suddenly that no small creature had made such a noise. She had, she was certain, seen just a portion of a much larger animal.
A shiver of fear coursed through her. Something was hidden in the underbrush. A pronghorn, probably. The hills were thick with them. She took a few cautious steps closer. Stretched between the branches of two ponderosa pines, she recognized the leg of an animal. Too large for an antelope. And dark. A cow, most likely. Angus roamed these hills with impunity. Maybe a wolf had taken one down. She jerked to a halt when she realized what that implied and swung toward home.
But the noise came again, an almost defeated moan that stirred something inside her.
Exhaling carefully, Sydney fisted her hands and ducked into the trees. It was tough going. She pushed the branches from her face, wound through small, thorny bushes, and stepped into a clearing.
For a moment she couldn’t even identify the species. Emaciated and filthy, the animal lay flat on its side. Its clay-colored hide was covered in mud, but it was the sight of its legs that made her stomach twist. Caked in dried blood, they were swollen at the hocks, slashed at the pasterns.
A horse.
The sound that escaped her lips was little more than a breathless hiss. Still, the dun jerked its head up at the noise. Its eyes, rimmed in white, opened wide. Their gazes locked, and then it tried to scramble desperately to its feet. But even as it did so, barbed wire tore at its flesh.
“Don’t!” Sydney rasped, but the sound of her voice sent the animal into a panic. It thrashed. Fresh blood sprayed onto snow plowed away by frantic hooves. “Stop!” she begged and lunged forward.
If she lived forever, she would never know what caused her to do something so foolish. Would never understand what she had hoped to accomplish. Maybe it was pity that drove her forward. Maybe it was sheer panic. Or perhaps it was something deeper … an intrinsic understanding of pain and fear and loneliness. But whatever her intent, she threw herself at the animal. It snorted and tried to jerk away, but it was weak, trapped. And in a moment Sydney found herself sprawled across the poor beast’s head.
“It’s okay! It’s all right!” Her lies, of course, did nothing to placate the animal. It thrashed, nearly tossing her aside, but she grasped the upthrust branch of a nearby log and readjusted her weight until the horse finally lay still. “It’s okay.” Sydney squeezed her eyes closed and tried to catch her breath. “Don’t struggle.” She needed help. That much was clear. But from where? And in what form? Euthanasia was the obvious answer.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered and, easing her right hand into the pocket of her borrowed coat, managed to pull out her cell. She could dial 911, pray her call went through. The police wouldn’t have a sedative, of course. But they’d have a rifle. She’d seen a chart once that showed the proper way to shoot a horse. A single bullet to the brain and the animal would be out of her misery.
Her hand shook as she touched the button that awoke her phone. Beneath her, the mare paddled weakly, almost defeated, almost subdued, but not yet ready to give up.
Sydney gritted her teeth and punched a button on her phone.
“You okay?”
She had no idea why the sound of Redhawk’s voice made her want to cry.
“I need help.” Her voice sounded scratchy and scared to her own ears. “There’s a horse.” A sob tore at her throat, but she pushed it back, tamped it down. “Tangled in wire. It’s bad, Hunt. It’s really bad.”
“I’ll get my rifle. Be there as—”
“No!” She sounded panicked, near hysteria, but she massaged it into some semblance of normal. “You can’t shoot her.”
He exhaled quietly. “Listen, I know it’s hard.” His voice was calm, practical, but she’d been practical all her life, and where had it gotten her?
“You listen!” Her voice cracked. She ignored it. “She’s not going to die.”
He didn’t respond.
“Hunter?”
“Where are you?”
“South of the ranch.” She lay still, listened, heard the sound of running water. “Close to the creek.”
“East or west of Gray Horse?”
The sun was sinking on her left. “West. West, I think.”
“All right. I’ll be there as soon as I can get some backup. Just stay clear of the horse,” he said and hung up.
“Hey, Hunt.” Colt Dickenson grinned as Emily took a pan of raspberry crisp out of the oven. The kitchen smelled like warm sugar and contentment. “We were just going to have a little dessert before chores. Want to join—”
“Sydney’s in trouble.”
Casie turned toward him, sunny smile already fading as she cuddled Baby Bliss to her chest. “What’s wrong?”
“Sydney needs help.”
“What’s going on?” she asked.
Colt repeated the question. Hunter’s monosyllabic answer was nearly a dissertation by Hunkpapa standards.
“There’s a horse in barbwire,” Colt said.
Casie passed the baby off to Emily, expression already troubled, mind already spinning. “What do they need?” she asked, and for a moment, the sight of her, the kindness of her, was almost too much for Colt to bear.
“God, I’m crazy about you,” he said.
A smile flickered through her eyes. “Or just crazy. How bad’s the horse?”
“She thinks she can save her, but they’re a ways out. South of the old Schneiderman place.”
“Rugged country.”
“Too rough for a trailer.”
“But we can get horses in there.” She strode toward the little foyer. “Haul them as far as we can, ride the rest of the way.”
“Hear that?” Colt asked. Balancing the phone between his shoulder and his ear, he slipped an arm into his jacket sleeve as he headed for the door.
“You got a mount for me?” Hunter asked.
Colt grinned. “You want one that’s not going to kill you?”
“It’d be my preference.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Colt said and pulled Casie in for a quick, hard kiss.
“You,” he said, “are one in a million.”
“You bet your boots,” she agreed. “Hook up the trailer. I’ll saddle the horses.”
Chapter 13
&
nbsp; An hour later they were making their way through the brush, calling out to locate Sydney. It seemed like an eternity before they got a response.
“I’m here,” she yelled. It wasn’t until that moment that Hunt caught sight of her braced against the head of a downed mustang. Beneath her, the animal thrashed. He swore in silence.
“Holy Hannah!” Casie’s voice was breathy.
“I thought I told you to stay clear,” Hunt growled.
“You brought a wire cutter?” Sydney’s voice was rough.
Casie and Colt exchanged glances, but Hunter kept his attention locked on the pair on the ground.
“Listen, Sydney …” He gritted his teeth and pulled his gaze from the animal’s mangled legs with an effort. “We’re going to have to—”
“No!” Her voice was as hard as granite. “We’re not putting her down.”
“We don’t want her to suffer.” Sympathy was clear in Colt’s tone. “Not any more than she already has.” He shifted in his saddle. “I brought a rifle.”
The horse thrashed again. Sydney’s patrician features, just visible past a mess of tangled hair, were as pale as the snow lashed away by the animal’s frantic hooves. Her hands were scraped raw, her cheeks smeared with blood, but whether it was hers or the horse’s was impossible to tell.
“Are you going to help me?” Her words were barely discernible through her clenched teeth. “Or do I have to do it myself?”
“Her legs—” Casie began, but Sydney interrupted.
“Her legs are fine. They’re fine.”
Silence echoed in the little copse. Hunt’s voice barely disturbed it.
“I’ll cut her loose,” he said.
“You can’t,” Colt argued, but Hunter was already handing Angel’s reins off to Casie. Ty Roberts’s gray mare, wise with age and experience, shook her head and backed cautiously away.
“Halter her first.” Sydney’s rasped words stopped him dead in his tracks.